A Matter of Language
by Adaneth of Lebennin
Summary: What sort of effect did the Ban of Quenya really have on the Noldor? Inspired by the essay/rant "About the Ban of Quenya, a.k.a Why Language Banning Sucks and You Should Think About It More" by fieldofheathers-stuff on Tumblr.
1. Council

A/N: Hello, dear readers. This story is inspired by the essay/rant "About the Ban of Quenya, a.k.a Why Language Banning Sucks and You Should Think About It More" by fieldofheathers-stuff on Tumblr and various following commentaries. I readily admit that I do not nearly have the amount of personal experience with this subject that she does and cannot understand it as acutely. However, it is something that I find integral to my grasp on the Noldor living in Beleriand and something that generally should be more discussed.

This is from the point of view of my OC Ondaltö, who is fairly young here. You'll get to learn more about him later, but for now, all you need to know is he is the son of a captain of Maedhros's forces.

Finrod's quotation is taken from Thingol's speech in the Silmarillion, page 129, in my copy.

* * *

The hall of the High King is filled with the lords of the Noldor and their captains. The children of Arafinwë have heralded the most recent trouble from Doriath and there are many rumors circling about their part in it. Nolofinwë sits in the high chair, his hair bound from his noble brow with a fillet of mithril. Findekáno sits at his right hand, grim-faced Nelyafinwë at his left, and Findaráto at Kano's right. I stand among the other squires at the edges of the room, listening.

Findaráto stands. "I repeat the words of Elu Thingol, Elwë: the king of Doriath. 'But hear my words! Never again in my ears shall be heard of the tongue of those who slew my kin in Alqualondë! Nor in all my realm shall it be openly spoken, while my power endures. All the Sindar shall hear my command that they shall neither speak with the tongue of the Noldor nor answer to it. And all such as use it shall be held slayers of kin and betrayers of kin unrepentant.' So he said to me and my brothers when he heard of the deeds at Alqualondë," he ends mournfully.

A heavy silence follows as Findaráto sits, his golden head bowed. My mouth parts in shock, for I do not know what to make of this. My father stands.

"This ban is outrageous!" Atar cries. "He would use such measures to force us to abandon our mother-tongue? We should not allow it!" I nod, taking note of how many others agree. A murmuring washes over the room as a wave upon sand. Atar lowers his tone, "I know Elwë is to be respected as one of the oldest of the Quendi and as a king in his own right, and that he is much aggrieved, but I cannot believe that he would impose such a measure."

"It has been imposed. We cannot change his mind," says Angaráto. Atar sits with no further protest.

"Yet, what has this to do with us among ourselves?" a captain of Ambarussa's adds. "He pronounced it to his own people. If he holds us in contempt, what of it? He is not the first."

"Yet we live among the Moriquendi and they are more numerous than we are. It would be nigh impossible avoid interaction with at least some who would heed this ban. We must be able to communicate with our neighbors. How else can we call to them for aid in our fight against Moringottö?" Findekáno observes.

"The Moriquendi have been hiding in their woods long ere we returned. Do you think they would emerge now, when the Enemy is not in bonds, nor under the watch of the Powers?" Carnistir spits. "And their watching was for naught." Though an Exile, I cringe at the near blasphemy. Others seem to relish the chance to cry out against the grievances the Powers have doomed us with. Though we have been, I am not so sure such a doom was not already upon us.

"Do you forget that it was Elwë Sindicollo who allowed us the lands we have?" Nolofinwë chastises.

"And they are ours now," another captain interjects. "Why should he dictate what the Noldor may speak? We have our own king!"

"Hear, hear," my cousin whispers beside me. "That was well-said, was it not, Ondaltö?"

I make a gesture of silence, but others are not so levelheaded. Shouts erupt across the court. Assent clamors with dissent and insult is soon tossed between sides, which seems split between the followers of the Sons of Fëanáro and those of Nolofinwë. I fear we are upon the brink of violence when Nolofinwë stands, his hands raised.

"Be silent!" he commands. All are stilled. Glares are cast as lords and vassals alike take their seats, but they keep their peace. Nolofinwë's voice carries across his court, level and deep. "Long ago we chose to leave these lands; Elwë did not. These lands are his by right and he was merciful to grant them to us to occupy. His anger is not entirely unjustified with us, the Exiles, for indeed, our deeds against his kin gave rise to it. We cannot change our past and neither can we return to the land we left."

"Many of our people have learned their language already. It should only be a matter of speaking it to them. We would not have to abandon our language, only use the other when we have dealings with the Moriquendi," someone says.

"It would not. There are many who seek refuge among us. Do you not think that they would hold us in despite? If they are to call us by our names that would be breaking their ban. What then?" another replies.

"We should be held as unrepentant Kinslayers."

"Are we not?"

"What of your wife? She spilled no blood. Should she be hated for that?"

"What does it matter if they hate us?"

"We have already lost so much. How can we lose Quenya as well? It is one of our few possessions that cannot be torn from our hands. We should not let it be torn from our mouths."

Such interrogation continues back and forth. Tempers threaten to rise again, but the stern glance of Nelyafinwë is enough to cool them. Finally, the High King stands once more. For the span of a breath, his brow is creased, his fingers curl towards his palms, his arms raise and cross as if to shield himself, and then he is composed.

"I have heard each debate you have on this matter. I understand that our language is our birthright, our identity," he states, fingers brushing his breast. He lets them flutter back into the folds of his over sleeves, a look of sad resignation, and perhaps hope, passing over his features. "But for the sake of peace, we must take the tongue of the Moriquendi as our own and teach it to our children. We cannot afford to have enemies in the North and the South, and less to be an enemy of our kin. If we wish to be established in these lands at all, we must be established anew. So say I, the High King of the Noldor."

* * *

Arafinwë-Finarfin

Nolofinwë-Fingolfin

Findekáno-Fingon

Nelyafinwë-Maedhros

Findaráto-Finrod

Angráto-Angrod

Moriquendi-"Dark Elves" name for the Elves who have not seen the light of Valinor, effectively, the Sindarin

Elwe Sindicollo-Elu Thingol

Moringottö-Morgoth

Carnistir-Caranthir

Ondaltö-my OC

* * *

A/N: Sorry for the huge amount of author's notes and the equally long list. I'm really just putting this chapter up for feedback and I'll probably edit it heavily. I just wanted to get an impression of how my work would be received. Please let me know, even if it's just a small note to say you liked it or not. Thanks!


	2. Decisions

A/N: Thank you all for sticking with this! I forgot to add the disclaimer on the last chapter, so you can check my profile for the formal one, or you can just believe me in saying that I only own my OCs.

* * *

Atar clenches his cloak in his hands, impassive, silent. I fold my shirts and robes, then Atar's, stuffing them in the saddle bags. The quiet lasts until I pull on my boots. Atar sighs and places a hand on my shoulder, fixing my gaze in his steely one. Tears brim below his eyes. I shift uncomfortably. Does he question his convictions as I do?

"We shall adhere to these…requirements in our daily affairs. However, I cannot allow us to lose our own language. We will speak Quenya amongst ourselves when in the comforts of home, for there, no one shall tell us otherwise." I relax. He is still firm in his decisions. His grief flows from such conviction, but the emotion scares me no less with understanding.

"What does it matter what we speak and where, Ata?" I bow my head, resting my hands in my lap. "Not all of our people are Kinslayers. Márawen is not, nor Tinalqua, and not even Istanö. Why should our tongue determine our identity as that? Our hands killed those at Alqualondë, not our mouths."

"Fëanáro's words spurred us to such acts. It was his words." Atar rests a hand on his brow. "And yet, he could have said them in any other tongue and we would have done the same. It was him and the meaning of his words." He pauses, a hard look about him. "It was us and our own foolhardy tempers."

A knock sounds on the door. Atar passes his hands over his eyes and lifts his chin, straightening his shoulders. I stand.

"Enter."

Nelyafinwë opens the door, his frame shading the entire opening as he ducks inside. He is dressed in freshly pressed riding clothes, though his boots have dried mud spattered on them.

"Captain Orontö," he addresses Atar, a cautious and rebellious light in his eyes, "have your host ready within the hour. We leave for home." He speaks in an odd mix of language, filling in the gaps of our knowledge with our own tongue, now that which belongs to Kinslayers. A twisting in my gut forms, as it did when the wrath of Ossë sank many ships in our flight from Valinorë.

Atar bows, hand clasped to his chest, long hair masking the grim twist of his lips. "It will be done," he replies in as much Sindarin as he can. He bears a thick accent: his _sule_ lisped, the _ando_ too much like the _tinco_ , his voice with no lilt.

Nelyo inclines his filet-bound head and turns to me. "Ondaltö, ere you have prepared your father's horse, I would that you find a copy of the lettering of Daeron that is in good form, or else copy it yourself. I know you have a careful hand. Carry it on the road in your saddlebag and give it to me when we are returned," he orders.

I bow in silence, the gravity of the task weighing on me like a wet wool cloak. What I glean is what will be taught to those who have yet to recall or learn the runes we abandoned in favor of Feanárö's precise script. Yet, I sense a detachment between his words and intent. I suspect he knows that in the far North, few will heed Elwë's words.

* * *

Ondaltö: Large Stone (ondo-stone/rock, alto-large)

Orontö: Mountain (oront-mountain, o-masculine name ending)

Márawen: Useful Maiden (mára-good/useful, wen-feminine name ending meaning maiden)

Tinalqua:Glittering Swan (tin-glittering, alqua-swan)

Istanö: Knower, One who Knows (ista-know, no- masculine ending indicating doing)

~All translations taken from the name lists on realelvish . net

* * *

The words in italic are the names of letters in the Tengwar: 's,' '(n)d,' and '(n)t' corresponding to our alphabet respectively. There is plenty of material out there if you'd like to learn more about that. The Omniglot website is a pretty good place to start.

I hope you all like Ondaltö. You'll meet the three new names later. Comments, constructive criticism, and the awkward keyboard flail are appreciated.


	3. Song

A/N: Many thanks to my beta reader, **Moringotho-in-Angamando**! She has a great eye for consistency and I am grateful for all her help.

(Thank you, God, for providing such a lovely beta to work with!)

I hope you all enjoy finding out a little more about my OCs this chapter. I will clarify that for this fic, I'm operating on my own idea that not all of the Noldor bothered to learn Sindarin as quickly as the majority did. Orontö prefers an old-fashioned type of Quenya, þ instead of s included, and finds Sindarin difficult to acquire. Ondaltö knows enough Sindarin to ask for directions and he is willing to learn more, but he is torn between ideals, so he is my middle-ground. Istanö is the more typical Noldo, one who acquires and integrates language quickly and eagerly.

I don't own anything that belongs to Tolkien. I'm just expanding on what he has.

* * *

Belroch: S, Powerful Horse (bell-strong in body, roch-horse)

Tinalqua: Q, Glittering Swan (tin-glint or glitter, alqua-swan)

Elentarí: Q, Star Queen (elen-star, tarí-queen), a Quenyan name for Varda.

Vása: Q, the Exilic name for the Sun.

* * *

The journey home is frigid in more ways than one, but the malicious chill sent from the North is distraction enough from more petty quarrels. Even Macalaurë's host is uncharacteristically silent. I pinch my cloak higher about my throat, fixing my eyes steadily East as we move under the cover of the trees.

"Dorthonion," I whisper, feeling the syllables roll off my tongue, "the Land of Pines. Amon, hill. Orod, mountain." My gaze darts to Atar, his red plume bobbing near the head of the vanguard. "Orodon." He has been reluctant to respond to that name, looking up when called by it with great effort of will. He has not the luxury to feign ignorance as some do.

"Gondir," my cousin calls in a low voice, "Gondir." He draws his horse closer to mine. "Ondaltö." I turn to look at him.

"Yes, Ist…Ithron?" I reply, my wind bitten cheeks coloring with shame.

"Why is it that you mutter under your breath like one mad?" Istanö smiles wryly. "I am surprised. I thought that was my flaw."

I laugh, ignoring the odd stares cast my way. "Ai, have I turned into the scholar you are? I do not think so, for I have not the grasp on Sindarin as you do, cousin. I did not wish to learn it so well when I thought I had the leisure to do so at another time. Have you turned into the soldier, then?"

He shakes his head, rapping my crown with his knuckles. "I should hope not. I prefer to keep my brains whole inside my skull. Indeed, I think yours are so dashed about that they must account for the size of your pate. It is a wonder you toppled not harder from Belroch in the Ered Wethrin."

I grimace as I touch the bruises peppering my side, the mementos of an Orc ambush in the Mountains of Shadow. "I have no wish to recall that skirmish," I sigh. Belroch, sturdy and hale, but green, bolted as the first arrows flew, tossing me in a heap of rocks.

Istano grins. "Ah, we must think on things more pleasant. Has any fair maiden caught your eye amongst those of Nolo…Fingolfin's people?"

I straighten in the saddle, adjusting my grip on the reins. "None among Fingolfin's, dear cousin. You know the little maid whose hair I used to pull whenever my mother was called to embroider a dress for one of Indis' handmaidens?"

"The golden-haired Tinalqua," he answers, staring afar. "That was a long time ago." He looks back to me, searching. "I did not know that she had crossed the Grinding Ice."

"She endured."

"And?" he prods.

I open my saddlebag, pushing the piece of parchment with Daeron's runes aside, drawing out a silver ring*. I place it in Istanö's hand for inspection.

A broad grin stretches across his face as he turns it over in the light.

"It is fine workmanship. One of Curufin's apprentices wrought this, yes?"

"Tel**…Celebrimbor did. Though he is only a child, he has the talent of his sire, if not his grandsire. I was going to commission one of the older apprentices, but it seems the grandson of Fëanor should have been named Silver-tongued and not Silver-fisted, for he was very persuasive," I say.

"I should expect nothing less. Was he very persuasive on your purse as well?"

"No," I shake my head. "He offered a fair price. He is less proud by far than his father."

"Well, that is good. When do you plan to exchange the rings?"

"Whenever there is peace enough to ask."

Istanö nods and looks at the horizon again. "Hark, cousin, we are coming to the end of the trees at last and the beginning of the plains."

I sigh, tucking the ring back into my saddlebag. I feel a sudden, inexplicable shiver. The tune rises first among the rearguard with harps and flutes, becoming more layered as it swells through our ranks. I look around in wonder and the music rises to my throat. It is the songs of our people, the songs of our home. With loud voices we sing together, song after song, in Quenya. Nothing is untouched, marches, lullabies, histories, hymns, ballads, and laments are all sung to their fullest as we cross the long leagues. They leave a bittersweet taste in my mouth, knowing that this will be one of the last times we will ever chance to sing them aloud.

Our chorus is split as we break for camp. Istano chants a play song from long ago in our youth as he slips the pins into the tent poles, deftly fitting each wooden piece to another. I join in the work and the reply.

 _Bird in tree, can thee I reach among the branches high?_

 _Child on ground, with such thin wings, hither thou could not fly._

 _Bird on bough, can thee I feed, if I the branches climb?_

 _Child on hill, but yonder still, the Lights begin to twine._

 _Bird in leaves, then thee I think I cannot hope to meet?_

 _Child on grass, thy arm I'll perch, if you've good grain to eat._

 _Bird up high, here in my hand is barley that I hold._

 _Child nigh, there I will fly, as new friend of one bold._

We finish and eat a silent supper without Atar, who is cloistered in council with his lieutenants. The stars wheel above in the firmament, glinting down upon us. I wonder if Elentarí looks upon us with hope still, that perhaps we can change in this new land. One last song, raw and plaintive as a new wound, arises upon Macalaurë's golden voice as Vása lights the sky.

* * *

*The silver ring is an Elvish tradition involved with an engagement. The couple pledge their troth and exchange silver rings, keeping them for the duration of the engagement, returning them on the day of their wedding. Tolkien's notes on this are found in Morgoth's Ring (Volume X of the Histories of Middle Earth), "Of the Laws and Customs Amongst the Eldar." (again, thank you, Alexandra. I would be lost in citations without you.). A great summary of the Elvish engagement and marriage process is given in dreamingfifi's essay, "An Elven Wedding" on realelvish . net.

**"Tel..." refers to Celebrimbor's Quenyan name, "Telperinquar." It's weirdly in the Telerin dialect. Also, it's unclear whether he was born in Valinor or in Beleriand, so I'm going with Beleriand for now.


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